Standing at the mirror I take inventory of the day and of my face. I play back the conversations I had at work, my train of thought on the solitary drive home, and I scan the shape of my face—it’s more angular than before. I am not sure when the dissatisfaction with the planes of my face started, but it was a constant. I remember biting the lower corners of the inside of my mouth to try and make my cheeks look hollow. I studied make up tutorials on how to accent my cheek bones. I pored over magazine articles about how to apply make-up to your specific face shape.
Apple?
Square?
Triangle?
Nothing seemed right. I always felt like a sham because whichever shape I chose, when the make up was done, it did not look like hers.
Here I am raising three girls and I think, I hope, I strive to no longer be seeking her. I want to be satisfied with me, I have to be. These girls are masterful in their studying. They catch every sigh, every tense muscle, their comedic timing has benefited from the company we keep and the access they have to our friends and the ways that we interact. It’s cute when it’s something like a fist bump or the spot-on mimicking of a character from a movie. It’s less charming when it’s bed time and Avery is relating to me with hunched shoulders all that she has to do the next day and how very concerned she is that she cannot manage it all.
“It’s ok, sweetie. You mentioned art and music, you love those subjects.” I tell her, rubbing her shoulders to try and smooth out the worry.
“And library!” she squeals.
“Yes, library. It will be a great day.”
“Yeah, but there are other things, so many in fact that I can’t remember them all.” She turns her eyes downward. My brow starts to furrow, but I loosen it and say, “You know what, honey? I think that you are going to do fantastic. Anything that ends up tipping into the ‘too much’ category, we can work on together when you get home. Sound ok?” I ask. She looks up at me and considers it. When she nods I think that maybe she was just trying my worry on for size. Or maybe she wasn’t, maybe it fits perfectly and she knows it.
Down the hall in the bathroom I look into my own eyes, though framed by lines, they are exactly as they’ve always been. Not blue, not green, more than hazel. They are not the eyes I see in my daughters’ faces. Somehow as a mother I have come to understand how everything is precious, everyone. The color of a person’s eyes, the way the bridge of a nose is kissed with a smattering of freckles or that little hitch in a step. Miracles abound as I look around me, but the lesson doesn’t always stick as I view myself. I can still hear the comments, sometimes from women, other times from men, peppered throughout my life that suggested I wasn’t enough.
“You have feet like a guy.”
“Your hands are huge.”
“Sure, she’s pretty and she’s only five grand from a nice rack.”
“These won’t suit you, you don’t have the petite build they look best on.”
I spent years trying not to put myself in a position where my size could be judged. Public weigh-ins at the beginning of track season destroyed me, knowing as I did that my weight on the scale was always more than what people expected. I’ve worked hard to get beyond the shame of numbers on a scale, but when a woman is 5’10” there are times when people feel entitled to judge.
“Why on earth are you wearing high heels? I wouldn’t want to be that tall.” and “It isn’t fair that you are wearing heels, that kind of thing should be reserved for shorter women.”
My shoulders are broad, in high school they embarrassed me, since then they’ve carried three babies thousands of miles. They’ve torn down walls and helped power me swimming from one side of an island to another. When I stand in a dressing room and try on a top or a dress I try not to let the label define me. Yet there is still a part of me that sees the Large or the 10 as a failure. Too big. The idea of not fitting goes beyond the shirt, somehow it’s about me. I don’t fit. When the shirt comes off I see myself in a better light. The familiar lines of my shoulders, my waist that has expanded to carry life three times, they are, after all, precious to me.
Somewhere between mom and woman and dressing room and dinner table I need to once and for all shake this idea that I am supposed to be a way other than I am. It’s fine to try on other personas for fun, but the body I have, the talents I do and don’t have, these are things to cherish, not hide. Thirty nine years into being me and I revisit this theme with great frequency, although I am getting closer to understanding that there isn’t a miraculous finish line to cross that will herald my having become a grown up, or having figured things out, or that I will ever truly outgrow the awkwardness that is living. You and I, we will be unsure. There will be foibles and face plants, but there will be moments when we each feel alive with the knowledge that we are a kind of strong, beautiful or amazing that has never come before.
Maybe the hardest thing to do is to face that not being her is the best gift in the world, because it means that I am me.
Tagged: acceptance, Confidence, daughters, life
Rendered speechless, Amanda, if only to tell you that I will say that last line over and over and over until it sinks in.
So shall we all.
This is beautiful in both concept and craft. Gorgeous.
Thank you, Rita. I’ve always admired how you’ve written about your past issues with self.
You have no idea how much I needed to read this today. xoxo
Oh, friend, your posts about bangs and running and spending time with girlfriends has often been a similar source of, “Thank goodness!”
I’m sitting on my couch looking at my computer screen and nodding my head. I am 39. I’ve had three kids. I am 5’10″and my feet are huge. I remember going for our high school basketball physicals when the scales were out in the open and all the girls were lined up in back of me. The nurse would call out the number for someone else to record (idiots!). Does this sound familiar?
But you know what else? I can throw a ball hard and fast. I’ve got an awesome layup and I can help move furniture when required. It’s taken me a long time to see the value in those things. I still have carry some envy for the cute, little clothes and shoes that the more petite women can wear, but I’m getting there. I have to. I have two daughters.
I had a guy once say to me, “If your feet were smaller you’d tip over.” Common sense so often flies out the window when it comes to self-image.
Thank you so much for this, it touched my heart. Look in the mirror stand strong and repeat, I am enough!
I am so glad!
I don’t have the words, so you wrote them for me. For all of us.
This is so beautiful, Amanda, your voice is so clear and true and strong. It gets louder and more articulate every day.
I’ll print this and carry it with me.
Amy, so many years, so many revelations. So grateful for our friendship.
We are so much more than our bodies, our appearances. Our bodies do so much more than fill out clothing, and our appearances are cherished by those who mean the most.
Ain’t that the truth? Thank you.
Oh, yes, yes, yes. So much resonates, to the point where my eyes well with tears. Why do we ALL carry this “her” that we are supposed to look like, supposed to BE, with us? What is that about? Thanks for reminding me, with that glorious last line, that there are reasons I’m glad I’m not HER. xox
Yes!
I came to this post because I saw it shared and liked on FB. I appreciate the sentiment, but honestly I find it frustrating to read. It seems vain. Or very insecure.
Why think about these things at all? Who cares? Take a shower, comb your hair. Get a little exercise to stay fit, and then focus your mental energy on one or more of the big problems in the world, in your community or at home. That’s what I tell my daughters. To me, that’s the brass ring. That is beauty.
If someone expects something else in terms of appearance, unless it’s a work uniform or for a theatrical performance or something like that, they are wasting their energy, not mine.
Kelly, it’s probably a little of both. The thing is I do shower, I am fit and I get dressed for work every day. My time at work is spent trying to make a difference for a whole lot of causes and people. What I was trying to do here was own the fact that even with all that in my life there are times when despite having every reason to quit chasing something, I still run.
I think if you are able to avoid that, then that is incredible. The who cares is me and this post was about me working that out. Thanks for your comment.
Kelly
If you only knew the loads upon loads of hours Mrs. Magee spends, not trying to make a difference, but succeeding to do so. I live in her community and am amazed regularly at her tireless, selfless work.
What the piece says to me, knowing her a little, is that even the ones you look at and think “Wow! How does she do it all? She is in great shape, is an amazing parent and so beautiful. She volunteers all this time and energy, crafts things by hand and never seems to be in a hurry.” Even girls like that – well she struggles too. Honestly, it makes me feel like I am in pretty good company when I feel like I can relate to her.
Having Andrew and Anne in our house last night, and seeing Deb, Rui and Harold so recently has me thinking a lot about the summer we met. Seeing comments from Anna and likes from Michelle did it, too.
All these people, who were around us at the very start—takes me right back there. I thought you were so gorgeous the first time I saw you. And you scared the hell out of me. Any of the people mentioned above will attest to that.
Fortunately—and due in large part to my stubbornness—you no longer make me nervous, even though you’re every bit as beautiful.
I love you, babe.
Stubbornness. I used it. Two Bs, two Ns.
>Drops pink princess karaoke mic<
Bwahahaha. You are one hot dad…I think I see a sparkle on your forearm.
“Maybe the hardest thing to do is to face that not being her is the best gift in the world, because it means that I am me.”
Yes.
Thank you for this.
It’s worth sharing.
This is brilliant. Thank you! I finally exhaled a bunch of worry. This is my favorite though:
Somehow as a mother I’ve learned that everything is precious, everyone.
This post reads like a poem you have lived.
Thank you, Pamela. Seriously.
So beautifully written. It’s so easy to see the unique beauty in others, ‘the smattering of freckles’ like you suggest. I need to look more closely at myself this way. And I need to pat my squishy tummy that is not reminding me of my pant size, but of my babies. Thank you for the clarity.
I really think that the conversation sparked by this just goes to show that most of us are carrying some level of not measuring up and that it serves no purpose. Hopefully we can all find a way to move through the days a little gentler on ourselves and each other.
This post feels like a gift to me today, Amanda. Somehow I feel like I’m growing into body insecurities as I get older. (How does a woman lose self-confidence as she ages?) But your words remind me of the power of loving the Me I see in the mirror and not worrying about the Her that I will never be – not just for me, but for my sons and daughter.
I am fascinated by the ever-shifting relationship we have with our bodies and selves.
Joining the chorus here,
nodding my head,
exhaling.
In speaking our truth, it always illuminates the way for others.
Thank you.
Thank you, sweet friend.
You are a true treasure.
Admittedly, I didn’t need this post to tell me that… though it is a perfect moment for me to tell you I adore you. I understand you. I love having you in my life…even from a distance. Your words are always a salve for my soul.
I would like to tell you I envy your one commenter who apparently never experiences a moment of self-doubt, but I don’t… I think, the questions I ask myself, these moments I share with friends like you help to keep me whole and centered.
I wish I could possibly tally the number of times I nodded, smiled or simply wanted to say, ‘yes, friend… me too’. Having JUST put the lid on my 39th year… there must be something truly reflective about this time in our lives… I have found that I am feeling a far greater level of peace than ever before.. but I will always be a work in progress.
Thank you, for you.
xoxo
You’ve resest my mood many times with your invitation to talk about what is good. Thank you so much for speaking up today and letting me know how I’ve touched you.
This is my first stop and I have up say you have me- hook, lime, and sinker! Loved it, felt, been living it for my 36 years- just summed up my entire existence-long search for that belonging feeling..
Melissa, you are so sweet. Thanks for the comment!
Well, the body I am living in is a fright!But it works. It runs ,carries a 4 year old grandson, moves ancient patients,restores destroyed property,opens it’s arms to high school students,pays bills,buys groceries.laughs, cries,still helps her (93 year old )Mom,raises a glass or 5 of wine,drives like a maniac,commutes to Vermont,adores her offspring…..well …you get the picture! I so enjoyed this post! So important to recognize the perceptiveness of children, they are both sponges and mirrors.We are so hard on ourselves! I look at you and think,damn….if I looked like her I could have been a contender.So happy Sean adores you!At 57 I finally kind of like my feet!
MaryEllen you are the best. The Best! I love that I am a part of the fam. We need to get over to visit soon!
I couldn’t agree with this more. My daughter, now five, is painfully shy and anxious and I just keep hoping that I can raise her to be more confident in herself than I was.
Perfectly written. I felt that way about my legs for the longest time; so long that I thought maybe it was my mind that caused my bone to rot at the core. (Those are the things you think when you stare at too many hospital ceilings. Or any ceilings for that matter.)
Love you.
Ugh–THIS “Somewhere between mom and woman and dressing room and dinner table I need to once and for all shake this idea that I am supposed to be a way other than I am.”
Why is that so hard? It is so so hard. And it infiltrates everything.
What a thoughtful provoking post, Amanda.
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